


Lungs Aren't Working, Hold On

by disregard_me



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Crying, Death, Flashbacks, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, basically me projecting, but its not that bad, its so barely hinted though, oh yeah and tubbo's dead lmao, so if you manage to find it kudos to you, so is fundy, techno just has no idea wtf to do, vent fic, what if wilbur successfully blew everything up the first time?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disregard_me/pseuds/disregard_me
Summary: He puts his head back down, and takes in shuddering breaths, trying to breathe in 5 second intervals. He chokes, and just keeps coughing. Slumping against the wall, he gives up. Breathing intervals be damned, they’ve never worked anyways.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 146





	Lungs Aren't Working, Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> too much italics?

“-bur?”

Everything’s so loud, too loud. Wilbur can vaguely hear someone hyperventilating, but the sound is muffled, and his head pounds. He has a small feeling it’s him who’s sounding like a dying lab rat, but he can’t seem to care, not when the only thought running through his mind is to get away from everything, to make it stop. Lungs burning, limbs quivering from some invisible strain, he curls up on the floor, shivering from panic and fear that seems to have appeared from nowhere the moment everything started crashing on the floor. 

“-ilbur? Wilbur?”

His head is filled with static, and his vision is blurred, black spots blinking in his vision from lack of oxygen. He brings his hands up, as if covering his face would get everything to stop, but his hands jerk when they register the tears dripping down his face, and Wilbur chokes back a sob that threatens to rise from his throat. One of his hands reach up to pull his beanie down in attempt to cover his ears, but his hands are shaking so much and he can’t get them to stop, _oh god, fuck, why won’t they stop?_

Curling in even more on himself, he turns his head, but freezes at the sight of the blood ( _blood_ ?) and glass on the floor, along with heavy pots and pans strewn around in a spectacular mess. _Fuck._ He closes his eyes, and tries not to think about it. He tries to say something, anything, but he’s still choking on every breath he takes.

_I didn’t mean to kill you. I didn’t mean to, please, I didn’t mean it._

Fundy’s mangled, broken body appears like a ghostly apparition on the ground the next time he opens his eyes. Fundy. His son. His beautiful, lovable son.

He was married, right?

_Fundy, my boy. You know I didn’t mean it, right? I would never do that to you._

“Wilbur, I’m gonna just put my hand on your shoulder, okay?”

Wilbur says nothing, and turns his head to the other side, hoping to get away with the haunting image of Fundy. He freezes when he’s greeted with the sight of Tubbo grinning at him, blood dripping down his chin, hand raised in a friendly wave. But his eyes are dull, smile too stiff, and his actions rickety and forced, like he’s a puppet and his corpse is hanging from a few strings.

A laugh starts to bubble in his throat, _this hurts, it hurts, it hurts_. Tears start streaming down his face faster as his vision blacks out for a few seconds, and he’s gasping like a fish out of water, lungs trying to take in oxygen, but rejecting it the moment he gets some air.

He deserves all of this.

With his head spinning and body trembling violently, he feels like his soul is trying to shake itself free of the pathetic shell it inhabits. The steady drip of blood is the only strangely peaceful factor in this seemingly never-ending hell. _Maybe I died,_ Wilbur thought deliriously, _maybe I died, and this is my punishment in hell. Funny, I thought I’d just be perpetually blown up with shitty music playing in the background._

He really laughs at that. Well, more like a cut-off wheeze that quickly transforms into choking, and it takes care of any and all thoughts that could still be in Wilbur’s traumatized, suffocating brain.

There’s a gentle, awkward weight of a hand on his shoulder, and he registers pink hair out of the corner of his vision. 

“Wilbur, you’re gonna have to stay with me, man. You’re doing really good.”

Wilbur raises his head, and tries to talk to Techno, who's crouched down at eye level, shuffling around awkwardly. “T-Tech-” He breaks off violently as he coughs uncontrollably, chest desperately heaving. “I-I c-c-can’t-” Tears stream down his face like little rivers, and loud hiccups break free from his throat. “It h-hurts, p-plea-p-please.” He continues his broken, pathetic babbling, and just feels more hopeless as he fails to string together a coherent sentence again and again.

He tries to explain about Fundy, and Tubbo, and the glass, and how he _didn’t mean to kill them, Techno, please, help me, I can’t breathe, my lungs, they burn so bad, I can’t breathe, I can’t, I can’t._ He’s lightheaded and can barely form any proper thoughts apart from his burning need to _breathe_ , and realizes it's futile.

“T-Techno, I-I c-ca- _can’t_ b-brea-breathe, I-I c-can’t b-breathe, p-p-please—!” Wilbur gets louder and louder, and starts desperately clawing at himself till bright red rivulets of blood start dripping down his arms, trying to ground himself and gain a small semblance of stability. 

God, even pain doesn’t help anymore.

He puts his head back down, and takes in shuddering breaths, trying to breathe in 5 second intervals. He chokes, and just keeps coughing. Slumping against the wall, he gives up. Breathing intervals be damned, they’ve never worked anyways.

_“No, no, no, Tubbo, please. You can’t go.” The air smells of ashes and smoke, and so much blood. The plan wasn’t supposed to work like this. In the back, Wilbur can still hear the fireworks going off, can still see the lights reflecting off of Tubbo’s wide, dying eyes. A mockery, silently laughing at him. “Aren’t you happy?” they seemed to say. “You wanted this.”_

_He’s crouching down in the ruins of the podium, holding Tubbo’s small body in his arms, as he helplessly watches the life slowly drain out of him. Fuck fuck fuck. Where’s Tommy? He desperately cranes his neck around, trying not to jostle Tubbo, as he scans their surroundings for the hyperactive blonde boy._

_“TOMMY!” He screams. No response._

_Fuck. He looks back down at Tubbo, whose eyes are slowly starting to droop, and there’s this awful wheezing sound every time he breathes, shit. “Hey buddy, hang in there, okay? Just hold on, help is coming soon.” Tubbo coughs, and flecks of blood cover his lips._

_“Wilbur-?” Tubbo murmurs weakly._

_“Yeah Tubs?” No, help is coming, just hang in there, please. Fuck—_

_“I’m gonna die here, right?” It’s scary how calm Tubbo is, even as he’s turning colder and colder. It’s like he’s already accepted his fate._

_“Tubs, buddy, you’re okay.” Wilbur’s voice cracks, and he tries to pretend that his hands aren’t quivering when he brushes the hair out of Tubbo’s eyes. “Tommy and Techno are gonna get here, and you’re gonna be okay, alright?”_

_Fuck fuck fuck, please, not like this. Fuck, where’s Tommy?_

_He hears rocks tumbling down behind him, and he whips his head around. He feels like crying in relief when he sees Tommy scrambling up the ruins of the once great podium, towards him and Tubbo. “Tommy!”_

_Tubbo weakly tries to crane his neck, to see everything, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore._

_“WILBUR!” screams Tommy, as he makes a beeline for Wilbur. Upon closer inspection, Tommy’s all torn and bloodied with this wild look in his eyes, and his legs seem to wobble dangerously under him. “WILBUR, WHERE’S TUBBO— oh.”_

_Tubbo smiles weakly, as Tommy silently approaches him, face full of disbelief. “Hey Tommy.” He tries bringing his arm up for a wave, but the most he can do is bring it halfway before it flops back down, wincing. Breaking into a coughing fit that leaves Wilbur’s coat dripping with blood, he mutters, “I feel great,” with a stupid grin plastered on his face._

_Tubbo’s body goes limp, and he suddenly feels very, very cold when Wilbur puts a trembling hand on his cheek to wipe away the grime and blood._

Wilbur can hear Techno mumbling, “Wilbur, Wilbur, nothing’s blown up anymore. Wilbur, you’re okay.” From the sound of it, he’s probably whacking his brain, trying to mimic what Phil does. “I’m here.”

It doesn’t matter. It’s still his fault.

Suddenly, the front door smashes open with a bang. At the same time Wilbur lets out a terrified, haunted scream and shakes hard enough to bring the house down, Tommy leaps through the door with a yell, with a tired Phil trailing behind him, carrying a bunch of bags. When they register the ear-splitting scream, Tommy freezes and seems to realize his mistake.

Wilbur seizes up to a ball so tightly his knuckles are white, and his joints protest how hard he’s forcing them to contort. He buries his head in his legs and tries to muffle the fucking screams that he can’t seem to stop, goddammit, _stop screaming, fuck_. 

_This really fucking hurts. Hey Tubbo, did you feel like this when you were dying?_

Hazily, he realizes that he really must look like quite the pathetic sight, all curled up and shaking on the floor, dripping tears and blood and snot on the floor. His throat is raw and scratchy from all the screaming, and they just keep tearing themselves out of his ruined throat, completely involuntary and unwelcome. 

In an attempt to just relax himself, he rolls his head back and closes his eyes despite the stiffness of holding himself in one position so forcefully for so long, and goes lax as best as he can. _Fuck, calm down._ Just out the corner of his eye, he can see Tommy starting to tremble as his eyes dart around the room, as if looking for a escape.

Wilbur wasn’t the only one, of course not. Tommy screamed in his sleep every night for a few weeks after they escaped, and Techno was just silent for the most part, more affected by his two unstable siblings than the actual event.

Chest heaving, he brings his quivering hands up to his face and lets a shaky, mournful sob escape his lips as someone ( _Phil?_ ) rushes to his side, running his hands down his back and murmuring something Wilbur can’t hear. Reflexively, Wilbur flinches and fights to suppress noise as he breaks down in silent sobs, shoulders shaking and hands trembling so bad that they can’t grab onto anything anymore. 

His lungs feel like Satan’s stabbing these holes in his lungs with his little red pitchfork. It fucking hurts.

Wilbur hears Phil sigh tiredly, and Wilbur’s lip trembles in shame. 

Desperate, he tries to explain everything to Phil, he’s _right there, Phil, help me._ His words come out more as incoherent screams, but Wilbur’s really too tired to try anymore. “Ph-Phil-!”

_Oh, fucking hell._

* * *

He finds himself cocooned in a blanket on the couch, silently staring at the wall in front of him.

Phil’s sitting next to him, a reassuring presence. Tommy’s slouched and staring at the hollowly ceiling on the opposite couch, similarly wrapped in blankets. Techno’s nowhere to be seen. Wilbur guesses that he’s probably in his room, trying to cope. He never did handle any of his spiraling moments well, regardless if he engaged in them. _Too overwhelming_ , he said. 

Weird, coming from the guy who spends half his time on the battlefield, shedding blood.

His head still hurts and it's hard to form much clear thoughts, but his eyesight is clear of the black spots, and he silently shuffles in the blankets, and cranes his head to look at the kitchen. The mess is gone, and whatever he dripped onto the floor is as well. Looks like he missed all of that.

Not quite trusting himself to talk (if he could even), Wilbur turns to face Phil and silently pokes him a few times to get his attention, before pointing at his throat. Phil got the message and got up, made his way to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of water. Wilbur takes hold of it, and he realizes just how badly his hands are trembling a bit too late. The cup hits the carpet with a muffled thud, and water seeps into the material. _Fuck._

Unable to stop himself, tears suddenly start streaming full force down Wilbur’s face as he struggles to compose himself, frowning and desperately trying to blink the tears back.

_Goddammit._

**Author's Note:**

> damn, you actually read it?  
> lmao, writing this made my lungs hurt, i found myself shallowly breathing/holding my breath on more than one occasion  
> I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT COMPELLED ME TO WRITE THIS AHA H A
> 
> leave kudos/comments if you want, but i wouldn't be lying if i said i secretly wish for kudos and comments <33
> 
> tbh i've never projected before, so i apologize if this seems really awkward  
> and writing in present tense may or may not have been a good idea  
> 


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